


Rusted Silhouettes and Burning Filaments

by Lunarwolfik



Category: Drake & Josh, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarwolfik/pseuds/Lunarwolfik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of 12th grade when everything changes for Drake and Josh, otherwise known as, that one time Drake buys a Dibbuk box and gets way more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rusted Silhouettes and Burning Filaments

It's the end of 12th grade when everything changes for Drake and Josh

***

Josh opens the door to their room, sees Drake idly spinning in the Spin-y Chair of Awesome, and knows something's up.

"Drake, what'd you do?" he asks, weary, tossing his backpack onto the couch and following it a few seconds later, hoping to find comfort.

Drake looks at him, all innocent eyes and with a slight pout turning down the corners of his mouth and Josh knows, _knows_ , this means that whatever Drake did is going to end very badly for him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about Josh. I'm just sitting here," he pauses, pushing the chair into a quick graceful turn, causing it to squeak in protest. "Spinning," he adds, all smiles and bright eyes.

Josh sighs.

"Actually, you know what, I don't even wanna know, brother. I'm just going to ignore it and hope it goes away and when it doesn't and everything goes horribly wrong, I'll say I told you so," Josh says, rummaging in his bag and pulling out his Calculus book along with his lucky blue pen. 

When, a week later, a package arrives in the mail for Drake, Josh doesn't even question it, doesn’t even remember the conversation really, too busy with midterms to give it much thought. Which, Josh thinks in retrospect, was phenomenally stupid on his part.

***

"I got my Dibbuk Box!" Drake pounces on Josh the second he's in the door, beaming and shoving a…box in his face.

"So?" Josh asks, drawing out the syllable.

"It's a box. That's Dibbuk-y. It's a Dibbuk Box!" Drake says, like it should mean something. He gives it a shake; smile so bright that Josh would have thought he'd just gotten to meet his favorite guitarist or something.

"What's a Dibbuk?" Josh asks, wary and backing up a step. The box is small, about a foot high and has two little doors with no handles and a tiny pull out one on the bottom. It reminds Josh of that miniature jewelry chest on Megan's dresser, except the wood's a darker reddish color with identical bunches of grapes stuck on them in black metal. It _looks_ normal enough, if a bit unvarnished and kinda dull.

"I dunno, but it looks awesome," Drake replies shrugging, 

Josh is at the computer in a flash, googling Dibbuk, and Drake comes over to stand behind him, tossing the box from hand to hand, curious himself. Josh clicks the first link and sees the words "haunted" and "danger" and that catches his attention. He yelps, leaps backwards, falling into Drake, tripping and catching himself, and winding up pressed against him.

Drake leans forward, scrolling down. "Woah, it says it's haunted. _Awesome_."

"Get rid of it!" Josh knows he's shaking slightly, but he can't help it. He doesn’t like ghosts, he doesn’t want anything to do with ghosts, and he sure as hell doesn’t want Drake having a haunted _thing_ in their room.

Drake looks over at him in confusion, brows knitting. "Dude, what's the matter with you? It's not like it's really haunted or anything," Drake says, and with a 'pfft' and an eyeroll, he tosses it onto the couch. 

Drake’s still shaking his head and laughing when he grabs his guitar and plops down on the other end of the couch, strumming contentedly. 

Josh stares.

“You are not normal, Drake Parker,” Josh mutters to himself, quietly plotting ways in which the freaky-ass box could magically disappear without Drake noticing. All he had to do was distract him long enough and bam, freedom from creepy haunting boxes _made of evil_.

But it turns out distracting Drake was a lot more difficult than Josh remembered. And the Dibbuk box doesn’t stay quiet for long.

***

Two nights, that’s how long it takes before Josh is dead convinced the Dibbuk box has cursed him. He wakes up at three in the morning with weird-ass welts and ichy as hell and he swears the thing has inched closer to his bed.

He eyes it, feeling sick and nervous, scratching at his wrist.

“I’m on to you,” he says at the box.

The box doesn’t move. The room is still dark and ominous and the whooshing of the wind in the tree outside isn’t all that calming, but nothing happens.

Josh lies back down, staring at the ceiling, and contemplating setting the box on fire.

***

“Dude, what happened to you?” Drake asks him in the morning as Josh stumbles out of bed, bleary eyed and not really remembering much from the night before. His sleep had been haunted by dark colors and swirling gaping mouths. He shudders at the memory, rubbing at his eyes.

Blinking to clear them, he sees Drake looking at him like he’d lost a limb or something. Which is when he remembers the damn welts. And the itching. And the mocking box.

He looks down and where his shirt is rucked up, dark slashes fingernail-thin crisscross his stomach. Josh blanches, pulling off his shirt, only to watch the marks inch their way up and across his chest.

Drake stares even harder now, dumbfounded and Josh can literally feel panic tightening his lungs. He can’t breathe, he can barely think.

“What-How-“

Drake inches closer and starts reaching out to touch his skin but Josh slaps his hand away. 

“Don’t touch it!” He cries.

“It’s not gonna bite,” Drake remarks, clearly not understanding the severity of the situation.

“Drake. I swear if you don’t burn that damn Dibbuk box right this second I am going to beat you to death with it,” Josh grits out, scratching at his wrist again. Anger and confusion make for a heady mixture and he’s pretty sure the lack of sleep wasn’t helping. But seriously, what the fuck was going on?

Drake has the audacity to look personally offended.

“Josh, buddy, c’mon. This has nothing to do with the box.” He starts inching to where the box was on the table, backing away slowly enough that he thought Josh wouldn’t notice. But Josh notices all right. Oh boy, does Josh notice.

“Nothing to do with-do you see my chest? _I don’t even have fingernails_!” Josh yells, flailing his hand at Drake’s face. He;s pretty sure he was panicking.

Drake grabs his hand as it waves in his face, steadying Josh with the gesture and a quiet shushing noise as he investigates it. His forehead wrinkles with concentration, his mouth forming a thin line.

With his focus diverted, Josh takes his chance. He inches to Drake’s left, towards the table and the cursed box.

“Huh, yea, you’re right,” Drake says after a few moments and Josh’s few calculated inches forward.

“I _told_ you,” Josh replies snappishly. Drake rolls his eyes and mocks him, opening his mouth in a ‘blah, blah, blah’ motion.

Still holding his hand, Drake turns it over, catching glimpses of the welts Josh already knew were there.

“Woah, dude-“ Drake looks up then, eyes round with concern and this is it.

Josh dives forward, ignoring Drake’s concern (which was actually pretty nice to be on the receiving end of for once). He grabs the Dibbuk box with his left hand, off balance but smiling, tasting victory.

“Aha!” he exclaims.

“Hey!” Drake retorts.

And that’s when their door slams open and a gruff voice says, “Drop the box if you want to live.”

***

“I told you it was haunted.”

“And I told you not to wear brown because it makes you would make you look flushed, but you don’t hear me shoving it in your face.” Drake crosses his arms, a frown scrawled across his face. 

They were confined to Josh’s bed, which had been pulled away from the wall by a few feet, a ring of salt creating a mote of sodium around them.

The two dudes who had busted into their room, Sam and Dean they’d said, had also said they were professional ghost hunters. They certainly looked like they’d seen a tumble or two. Josh was pretty sure the shorter one could kill them with his glare alone and the tall one, who smiled like a normal person, was built like a tank.

After trespassing (and not even _apologizing_ the knaves), and a loud yelp from both Drake and Josh, Dean had unceremoniously yelled at Josh to put the box down. 

Josh had drooped it like it was on fire. Dean had nodded at Sam before swooping in with some cloth and a stern face. The cloth had been stitched with some weird symbols in silver-grey and Josh could have sworn it kinda glowed, but then that could have been the light.

After grabbing the box from the floor and making tsking noises, Sam had told them to move to the bed, that they weren’t robbers or anything, and that they were there to help.

Which is how they ended up sitting on Josh’s bed, surrounded by salt, while Dean spray painted their floor with _more_ weird symbols and Sam chanted in Latin. Josh had tried to protest, but Dean had given him a look that shut him down quick.

“So. You guys hunt ghosts. Professionally.” Drake says next to Josh, his shoulder bumping into Josh’s with each syllable.

Dean stands up, topping off what Josh prays is the last symbol.

“Kid, we hunt things that could tear you in two professionally. Ghosts are a fucking holiday,” Dean replies with a smirk that looks like it had once fit his face but was now ill-suited.

“Cool,” Drake says with a firm nod, bravado threading his voice. But Josh catches the fleeting downturn of his lips and the crinkle across his forehead. Drake was worried.

Josh had been lucky enough to pull his shirt back on before they’d been corralled onto his bed, but it only made things worse. His chest itched, his arms itched, it was torture. 

Josh scratches his stomach and Dean narrows his eyes, pointing at him.

“Don’t scratch. It’ll only make it worse,” he says, capping the spray paint before going to Sam’s side. Josh makes a face at him, but sticks his hand underneath his leg to stop himself. 

“You better pay to have this floor cleaned, cause Mom is gonna be _pissed_.” Josh throws back, feeling contrary.

At the words, Sam’s Latin chant falters and he gives Dean a look, before coughing to hide it and starting back up.

Dean rolls his shoulders with a sigh.

“How about we do our thing, get out of your hair, and you two don’t go buying anymore haunted fucking boxes on the internet, how does that sound?” Dean replies, bending down to stare at the starry-circle in neon red.

Josh feels a headache brewing.

Drake at least has the decency to look abashed.

Dean glances up, catching their eye before scrubbing a hand over his face, standing back up with something that could pass for an actual smile.

“Look, I know it’s not your fault and you thought it was a joke. I get it. You didn’t know. Me and my brother, we didn’t always know about this stuff neither, but now we do and it sucks,” Dean falters then, as if at a loss for words.

“Dude, that’s a horrible peptalk,” Sam says, apparently giving up on the Latin.

“Hey, it’s better than life’s tough, get a helmet.”

“Still-“ Sam puts the book down, its brown leather surface worn smooth from use.

“I’m gonna go get more lighter fluid,” Dean interrupts, clearly uncomfortable before heading back out of their room. Josh prays that one of his parents comes home early from the family picnic him and Drake had dodged because of a “class project”.

Sam rolled his eyes, heading over to where Drake and Josh were sitting, being careful to step over the salt line.

He seats, taking up far too much space and making Josh not a little bit uncomfortable because _giant_.

But the smile he gives them, the encouragement and patience that radiates off of Sam like he’s a gentle setting sun, is enough to assuage some of Josh’s fears.

“My brother means well, I promise.”

“He’s your brother?” Drake asks, a little incredulous.

Sam laughed. “Yea, anyway, look, what my brother is trying to say is that once you find out that the monsters under you bed are real, there isn’t really any going back. And it sucks that you two had to find out at all, let alone this way. Those scratches-“ he gestured at Josh’s stomach, “they would have been bleeding by tomorrow night. They would’ve become even bigger and you’d probably have bled out before you could blink.”

Drake sucked in a breath and Josh feels his stomach drop for a sick dizzying second. He could feel what it would have been like, the thick blood pooling in his hands, the lightheaded dizziness of death come-calling. He could hear Drake calling his name and his parents sobbing. 

It’s too much.

“It can kill?” Drake asks, voice a husky whisper and Josh realizes he’s shaking, that Drake has a steadying hand on his wrist without him noticing.

Sam nods, a grim twist to his features. “Yea, it usually does.” Sam ran a hand through his hair before standing up, suddenly smiling.

“Sorry, guess that peptalk wasn’t much better,” he continues, clearing his throat and stepping out of the salt.

Drake’s grip tightens. For once, Josh is at a loss for words.

***

The ritual itself turns out to actually be pretty cool, from a detached point a view. There’s smoke and fire, the Dibbuk box going up in a blaze of lighter fluid and blue flames, a curdled scream buzzing its way out of the box the second the match hits it.

Josh feels a sudden whomp of air and tastes sulfer, a flash of white-hot light illuminating the whole room before flickering out of existence.

He touches his stomach, feels smooth skin and breathes the first real breath he’s taken since Sam and Dean had thundered into their lives.

Josh can’t swipe his look of awe at the whole thing. And with the threat gone, ghost or curse eliminated, Sam and Dean became about a hundred times more normal. They joke around with easy grins, actually sticking around to scrub at the wooden floor when Josh pulls out the cleaning supplies.

It turns out Drake and Dean have a lot in common when it comes to lady-types and Sam knows a thing or two about chemistry that has questions dancing on Josh’s tongue. He tells Josh about tracking ghosts, EMF and why salt is the best thing to have in the house.

Sam patiently sounds out Latin syllables, scrawling a chant onto a piece of paper at Josh’s insistence. They discuss the mechanics of salt and burning, why it works, and if it could be reduced to a chemical reaction. Somehow they wind up chatting about Mark Twain and Josh is struck by how normal they really are, albeit with some of the crazy eye.

Sam and Dean leave a few hours later, with stern instructions to never go near another cursed object again, an e-mail address and a phone number their only calling card.

Seven months later, Drake and Josh graduate, move into the dorms at Stanford (god knows how Drake gets in, Josh had asked but Drake had only waved him off with words like ‘scholarship’ and ‘sports’ neither of which Drake had ever been stunningly great enough in to be recruited for) and Josh has managed to repress the memory of scratches along his bellybutton.

Two weeks into classes though, Josh once again has to kiss normality goodbye.

***

“Did you hear about those missing girls?” A blonde girl in Josh’s Introduction to Fiction class murmurs to her friend. Josh’s ears perk up, through no desire of his own. It’s like he’s been hardwired to pick up on freaky shit ever since-

He shakes his head, because if he didn’t think about it, then that means it didn’t happen.

“Yea, it’s nuts, that’s like, what, the sixth or seventh one this year, innit?” Her friend answers. Clearly neither of them had any respect for the fine institution they were attending.

Josh snorts to himself and gives an eyeroll for good measure.

The blonde girl nods. 

“The police are calling it the Monthly Murderer – well, maybe not the police, but the newspapers. Cause he strikes once a month.” The girl shudders. “Damn, I’m glad I don’t live there.”

Josh’s fingers are already clicking on his keyboard the minute the girl says ‘month,’ his brain about two steps ahead. 

There’s no way, no fucking way.

***

“Drake you will not believe what I just found!” Josh calls the second he enters the dorm, feeling full of bluster, cheeks flushed and a knot in his stomach.

Drake looks nonplussed.

“I never believe you, so what’s the difference?” He throws back, shutting a book and twirling around. Josh shoves him.

“So you know how people have been going missing?”

“No.”

Josh sighs.

“So people have been going missing-“ Drake continues, twirling his fingers, indicating that Josh should speed it up, cause he already knew that. Josh ignores the baiting, but barely.

“And it just so happens that it corresponds to the lunar cycle,” Josh finishes, wild-eyed and serious.

Drake’s demeanor changes in an instant, the soft smile that had been playing across lips vanishing.

“Show me.”

And that’s all it takes before they’re sucked back into the world of ghouls and goblins and bumps in the night because Drake, being Drake, can’t not check it out. 

They both know that the ghost had been real and those Winchester dudes had mentioned demons, so werewolves could totally exist.

***

It doesn’t take long to get the necessary equipment. Josh had already pinpointed the probable location of the wolfy assassin, a map plastered with red pins and crossed lines in digital on his laptop.

When Drake comes back to their dorm the next day with a bow and silver-tipped arrows, Josh gives him a very long stare.

“I’m not getting a gun and we’re gonna haveta, y’know-“ he mimed poking something with a stick.

“Poke it with a stick?” Josh asks, confusion raising his voice a few octaves.

“No, stab it. In the heart. With something silver. And call me crazy, but I’m not gonna get all up in a werewolf’s face with a knife so, bow and arrow.”

Josh doesn’t question it further because well, Drake has a fair point.

***

Josh prides himself on having not gotten Drake expelled or beaten up so far during their college years.

But now Drake is pushing those limits, hard. 

They don’t so much find a werewolf as-

“Dude, she's hot.," Drake says, all but oogling the woman with long brown hair leaving the den or wherever it was werewolves lived. They’d tracked paw-prints and reports to a house not too far out of town, nestled in bright smelling pines and peace.

"Yea, sure she’s hot, but she also eats people," Josh snips back, barely able to contain his anger and exasperation. It’s like Drake was just looking for ways to fuck up sometimes.

“She can’t be the werewolf, there’s no way,” Drake states with finality, turning back around to face Josh as the lady gets into her car.

“It’s not like werewolves come with neon signs that say “Danger, here there be wolves” Drake.” Josh flails, watching the car peel out, shiny black Camero paint giving him a pang of envy at his own cheap ride.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Josh retorts, crossing his arms.

Drake gives him the eyes, the big round doe-eyes that turn his insides to mush and make him want to feed Drake soup and make everything better.

“Oh no you don’t, you scoundrel-“

“C’mon dude, we can at least talk to her, and if she turns out to be a werewolf we just-uh-fix her.”

“Fix her?”

“Fix her.” Drake nods, as if simply by saying it he can will a werewolf cure into existence.

Josh huffs, already knowing this won’t end well.

Josh ends up calling Sam, who’d he’d been e-mailing on and off again since that first nightmareish meeting. Sam had given him some nifty advice about Stanford and, if Josh were honest, was a good 80% of the reason he’d went there.

He’d debated whether or not to e-mail Sam about the wolf thing, but he didn’t want to do anything until they knew for sure and well, Sam wasn’t exactly reliable with his replies anyway.

The message goes to voicemail, big surprise, but Josh is hopeful and Drake is practically vibrating with anticipation, so they head back to town and decide to wait for a call back.

***

Later, Josh isn’t sure how he lets it happen. He’s sure that if he hadn’t been a few illegal beers into getting buzzed that he’d never have agreed to the plan – beers that Drake had practically shoved in his face no thanks to Josh’s protestations.

Sam and Dean don’t call him back; they just show up all roaring engine and blaring rock metal.

Dean gives them one look before throwing his hands up in the air and grumbling something to Sam that sounds a lot like “not again” and “gonna get themselves fucking killed, I told you Sammy.”

Josh has reached blurry vision and Drake-damn, Drake hasn’t been drinking at all, the minx.

Josh watches as Sam follows Dean, patiently explaining something. Dean’s hand gestures and tight body language are not exactly encouraging.

“Josh, what if they try to kill her?” Drake asks meekly, twisting the beer bottle in his hands.

“They wouldn’t do that,” Josh replies earnestly, even though they both honestly have know idea what the two are capable of.

It’s a few tense minutes of watching the two brothers argue before Dean comes storming in, like thunder and lightening, grabbing Josh by the arm and pointing at Drake.

“I swear to god, didn’t we go over that whole ‘not getting involved in big bad monsters’ thing last time? “ he cuts them off before Drake can reply. “If either of you two even think about not following our plan, I will skin you both myself,” he continues, as if it’s a proper greeting. 

Josh paws at Dean’s hand ineffectively.

“Hey dude, lettgo.”

Dean’s grip tightens for a fraction of a second before he does actually let go. 

“Don’t die.”

And then he’s storming back out, just as Zeus-like as before. Josh glances over to Drake, who looks more impressed than scared and yea, Josh is getting a bad feeling about this.

***

After a few sobering minutes, they follow Dean outside, leaving money on the table for the drinks.

Dean’s rustling inside their sweet looking Impala and Sam is leaning against the passenger side door, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. There’s lines along the crease of his brow that weren’t there before, a stiffness radiating off him. There’s tension and weirdness and something that Josh is pretty sure neither of them should touch with a ten-foot poll.

“What the hell is up with your brother?” Drake asks and well, there goes that idea.

Sam replies with a funny smile and a shrug that’s almost lost inside the sleeves of his jacket. 

“It’s been a rough few weeks.” Dean’s snort from inside the car confirms Sam’s reply. 

Sam turns around as Dean finishes doing whatever it is (Josh doesn’t wanna say cleaning because the inside still looks pretty messy) and then motions for them to get inside.

They tumble in, Josh snuffling at the smell of grease and leather, Drake reverently stroking the seats as if he’d found his soulmate.

“This car is gorgeous,” Drake says as Dean gets in the driver’s seat.

He adjusts the rearview mirror and Josh catches the first real smile he’s ever seen from the man.

“Of course she is.”

The back seatbelt jams horribly, so Josh scoots closer to Drake, hoping for a middle belt but it’s no use. Guess that’s what Dean had been working on.

Sam turns in his seat as Dean starts the engine, the car coming to life with a load roar, like the firing pistol had just gone off at the races and she was galloping straight out of the gate.

They drive off and Josh gives directions when needed, while Sam starts explaining the plan in slow controlled words.

Sam’s patient, even when Josh balks. Drake puffs his chest up and puts on bravado like a cloak, but Josh has gone from buzzed to kinda sober and he’s less than thrilled.

“We’ve done this before, don’t worry.”

***

Of course, the idea of the plan and its reality don’t quite match up.

It doesn’t help that Sam and Dean don’t actually tell them the whole plan, that killing the hot lady werewolf’s maker won’t do shit, and that Drake and Josh would just have to suck it up.

They end up using Drake as bait (“cause these kids sure as hell can’t shoot for shit and I don’t want either of them watching my back Sam”), and then everything goes horribly wrong. There's blood and Drake screaming and Josh doesn't really remember much about it until two hours later, when he's sitting on the hood of the creaky dirt-encrusted Impala getting flashbacks to Trevor's El Camino.

Drake is bitching in the passenger seat while Dean digs out a bullet from his shoulder and Josh is pretty sure he can’t feel his toes.

Sam stands beside him, glaring at Dean and muttering about how this is what you get for going in half-cocked. Dean glares right back, saying the kid was stupid enough to jump in the wrong direction to which Drake yells, "you said right.” 

Dean pokes him in the ribs. "I meant your other right, dumbass." 

After that, it gets quiet for a few minutes, the sun peaking over the horizon, everything flickering in grays and pale reds, not real and too real at the same time. Josh picks at his shirt, catching a splash of red on the hem and the dried blood under his fingernails, remembering Drake shaking under his fingers, one hand clutching tight around his wrist, gunfire loud and exotic in the air as prayers tripped over Josh's lips in a constant stream of reassurances and commands because Drake was not allowed to die. 

Josh takes a ragged breath, and it catches in his throat.

Sam ducks his head to catche Josh's eye

“You okay?” he asks, voice soft and mellow, the concern hitting Josh in the breastbone. 

He nods, swallowing thickly.

“Look, I’m sorry, we should have told you but last time this happened, it didn’t go so well. And you guys, you know you don’t have to do this,“ Sam pauses, shifting weight from foot to foot, making the Impala groan in protest.

“Yea we do.” Drake says from the car, voice barely above a whisper. Josh blinks, swiping at his eyes, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. He wants to protest, wants to grab Drake and shake sense into him. He wants to rewind the few precious hours before Drake had gotten hit, before Josh knew what death tasted like.

But he also knows Drake’s right, that it’s true. He knows-has known, really, since 12th grade, that this was their life now.

Sam doesn’t say anything back, and instead bumps his shoulder against Josh’s. It’s a comfort he didn’t know he needed.

A few hours later, Sam and Dean drop them off at the dorm, telling them not to go off trying to be heroes again and to give them a call if anything comes up.

They don't talk about it afterwards, but Josh holds Drake tighter when they hug and sometimes Drake catches him looking at him different, like he's made of glass or will disappear right in front of him if he's not careful. 

Josh always looks away when Drake takes his shirt off, eyes skating over the stilted bloody memory, avoiding the bright bullet scar that traces the curve of Drake’s shoulder.

***

When, two months later, a ghost starts haunting the dorm room two doors over, Josh tries to stop Drake from getting into it, tells him it's gonna end badly, but it's not like Drake ever listened before so why should this time be any different? He jumps head first into it, pulling out a Ouija board and finding out the dead chick's name is Samantha and that the afterlife was really fucking boring.

He convinces her to stop hiding all the beer and turning chairs upside-down and the next day Drake and Josh's dorm room is mysteriously clean except for the words "Drake + Samantha" scrawled in pepper across their table, with a huge heart drawn around it. 

"Now you've got dead girls wanting in your pants. You have got to be kidding me," Josh says, eyeing the message like it's devil's spawn.

"What can I say, it's a gift," Drake says, shrugging and going back to brushing his teeth.

***

Slowly but surely Josh starts finding himself buying occult books, stacking them into neat little piles, sticky note labeling system on each one. There's a waist high stack with Ghosts and Hauntings, a small foot high one on Werewolves, and even a stack labeled Drake's, books that were checked out from the library by Drake (Josh didn't even think Drake knew where the library was).

Drake starts telling him about succubi and zombies and demons and Josh is a little freaked out by how much Drake enjoys this whole seedy demonic underbelly of America thing. 

Josh figures Drake could still get over it and he doesn’t wanna be holding the bag. He hopes that they could still go back to normal if he just tries really hard, but at the same time, it doesn’t stop him from casually keeping an eye out for a police scanner on ebay and buying more salt than either of them could ever use.

He just wants to be prepared, that’s all.

***

Drake actually _gets_ it though, the whole helping people thing, and much to Josh’s surprise he really doesn’t let it go. Far from it, he throws himself headfirst and hip deep.

At the end of the semester, he comes home at three o'clock in the morning with a black eye, burned fingers, and blood on his lip. He throws a bag of salt against the wall, tearstains mixed with dirt on his cheeks, and Josh goes from freaked out to fucking scared in two seconds flat. Drake tells him there had been this crazy-ass demon about four miles up and Josh yells and yells and forgets how to think. 

"What the hell happened?" 

"I thought I could help," Drake says, distant and broken. It turns out that exercisms were a lot more difficult in real life. Drake had fucked up, there had been blood and screaming and black, black eyes. 

The demon had laughed and stabbed itself; the kid’s eyes flickering back to blue-grey in his final moments.

They don't talk about it afterwards.

***

Halfway through the second semester, all contact from Sam and Dean stops, which is weird but not too unusual, the two of ‘em usually going radio silent when working a particularly tough case, so Josh doesn't think twice about it.

Josh builds his own EMF meter and after some really lame explanations, Megan ends up helping them make some exploding rocksalt bomb-things that have Drake smiling appreciatively.

They don’t hear from Sam and Dean until one blazing hot day a week into summer vacation. Josh is thumbing through a Dickens novel and Drake is strumming his guitar when their phones buzz.

It’s a message from Sam, just one word: Stull.


End file.
